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Presidential candidate and U.S. Sen. Barack Obama, D-Ill., visited Detroit Monday, addressing a crowd of thousands in the city's Hart Plaza, hours before the final day of the International Jazz Festival. On the heels of overtopping levees in New Orleans and the legacy of brutality Hurricane Gustav was leaving behind in the South, Obama cut his speech short, opted out for political barbs, and instead turned the focus of his missive as a charge for Detroiters to help those impacted by the severe weather.

That was very thoughtful of him, even if it was, like every syllable that oozes from a candidate's bought-and-paid-for lips, entirely scripted to curry favor with voters. Sure, it may have seemed like the tactful thing to do, but what followed left me a little chapped in my already bruised and battered ass region. The White House hopeful implored Detroiters -- metro and otherwise -- to not only offer up prayers and hope, but open up those pockets and donate some loot to the American Red Cross.

The latter is a great idea, if he wasn't addressing folks in one of the most economically depressed areas of the country. Finding a job in Detroit these days -- one with a wage you can live on -- is harder than locating the last shred of decency in Hollywood, or the final iota of integrity in D.C. The city's mayor here is not getting it done. Actually, he's about to get fired and sentenced to about six months in jail for lying under oath about pussy, a flagrant falsehood that led to an $8.5-million settlement out of city coffers and into the pockets of two numbnuts he wrongly had fired years ago. So, there's no revenue stream coming in from his efforts. People are fleeing the area like the theater is on fire, a good job is a rarity, and this cat comes in and the first thing out of his mouth is encouraging people to remove dollars from their pockets. Probably not the best strategy for a city like Detroit. I would've hoped that the man has ideas or, more realistically, conjecture, on how to bring monies in to the people of the city. The last thing anyone in Detroit needs is one more person trying to separate them from their cash.

I get it. It's in the name of charity and goodwill for your fellow man and woman who have experienced a tragedy of sorts with that hurricane, but asking people in Detroit to give up their money? You might as well be asking them to give up the ghost.

Contrarily, his opponent's VP selection has been quoted as publicly declaring that the war in Iraq is God's will. That's one scary bitch, right there. Good luck with you and your knocked-up kid (although people with influence and wealth generally don't have much to fret about when the kid gets preggo). I take it that was God's will, too? Coming inside?

 

 

 

 

 

After spending every weekend in August (and part of July) running around various parts of the state, for good reason, it was nice to take a break over the long Labor Day weekend. I live in a suburb of the city where, regrettably, people like to "come to party." By people, I mean sateen shirt-wearing douchesack men in white leather belts; oversized, bug-eyed sunglasses; and Eastern European accents. And by "party," I mean blasting Jager bombs, Captain and Coke, and other such swill, while trying to get their pussy mack happening. But, on holiday weekends, most of those dildos clear out. Not that it mattered because we didn't leave the house all that much, especially at night.

We've been on the go throughout northern Michigan, where every weekend was starting to look like this:

 

 

So, it was nice to actually be around the house for once. You can tell when you've been gone many weekends in a row -- garbage day yields one bag, and the backyard has huge spider webs growing all over the place. We managed to make it out late Sunday morning for brunch at Seldom Blues, a highly reputable, incredibly upscale soul food-style, jazz-inspired dining room in Detroit's Renaissance Center,

 

 

right on the Detroit River. Detroit has a plentitude of eyesores -- and even some of the buildings are tough to look at! Hi-yoooo!! --  but they've hit an inside-the-park home run with the river walk. Definitely one of the cleaner, more welcomed parts of the city's landscape.

 

 

Seldom Blues is not exactly what I would call affordable dining ($35 dinner entrees, etc.), and this crowd was definitely replete with some of the city's notables, including numerous reverands, some local publishers, and at least one well-known jazz radio personality. And this was before the place even filled out. The fare was outstanding, each station its own well-thought-out oasis of breakfast-inspired delight. Aside from standard desserts, fruit and muffins, the main courses were a blitz of savory goodness and rib-sticking decadence. The added beauty to all of this is that we snaked right in for free, which is pretty goddamn sweet, considering that this Gospel Brunch costs about $35 a person.

 

And what a brunch it was. I'm talking about warm stations of made-to-order waffles, omeletes, and pancakes, beef tenderloin, mac and cheese, turkey sausage and bacon, onion and fingerling potatoes, biscuits and gravy, fried chicken, jalapeno cheese grits, barbecued peach chicken, mmmm-MMM! Such a joyous array of food. Chef Jerry Nottage has it wrapped tight here, without question.

 

 

Here is that bbq peach chicken,

 

as well as this "retro" ham ala king, with big chunks of meat, most of them just a touch smaller in size than your average pair of fuzzy dice.

 

We tried to traverse the river walk, but had to cut it short. My ass was killing me. Per my doctor's recommendation, I got the area X-rayed Saturday morning. They had hinted that the tailbone was not broken, which was good news to me, but on the walk Sunday, it flared up pretty good. Today, two days later, the pain is less noticeable and I hope that is a trend that continues. I'd like to get back to getting in and out bed pain-free, walking the dog, you know, the usual shit I often take for granted.

Other than that, the Sunday brunch was short of phenomenal. It was nice to get out of the woods and back in the city. I love it up north -- don't get it twisted -- but there's a reason I'm the self-appointed City Chicken, and it's not because I like the dish.

 

 

Apologies to Esquire's "What I've Learned" feature ...

No combination of two coins will make more noise in your pocket than a dime and a nickel.

The most consistent violators of piss-poor driving, at the time you absolutely need everyone around you on the road to just simply drive and not fuck anything up are, in this order: black women, old men in hats, anyone with a phone to their ear, anyone in a minivan (especially if it has a window sticker for your kid's soccer or hockey rec league on it), the intoxicated, the infirmed, the quirky.

No meal is complete without, at the very least, a bite of chocolate.

The last funny stand-up comics are/were, in descending order of the years in which they were funny: Lewis Black, Mitch Hedberg, Chris Rock, Eddie Murphy, George Carlin, Richard Pryor, Lenny Bruce.

I tried a little tenderness. A whole lot of "fuck you" seems to work much better.

You don't need six months worth of salary in the bank as your "in case of emergency fund." It helps, yes, but all you really need is enough for first, last and security, in the event you need to bust a move.

If you're a secretary, you own, at the very least, one John Mayer CD. And you think it rocks.

Introduce one, completely made-up "buzz word," one that you know probably no one has ever heard, in a meeting, and before that meeting is over, someone else will use that word in a sentence. I did this about four months ago. I noticed it happened in a different meeting, where someone used the term "baking it in," as in "We are going to take these three or four new components, bake them in, and then we'll revisit this in a couple of weeks ..." So, much later, we had a conversation in an entirely different/unrelated meeting, about an outside vendor who screwed something up and I said "Well, they really MacArthur Park'ed that one." And then I waited for about 10 seconds before someone quizzically asked "MacArthur Park'ed it?" "Yeah," I said. "They left the cake out in the rain." About a half-hour later, someone else tried to use the same analogy. I think the rest of my career is going to be designed around coming up with the most absurd examples to turn into catchy meeting terms to see who bites.

Celebrity/obviously recognizable types I would never fuck with, in order of who could kick my ass the hardest/swiftest: Henry Rollins, Johnathan Goodman, Juliette Lewis, Ving Rhames, Peter O'Toole.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What are you looking forward to this week?

NOT having to drive all over various parts of the state of Michigan, for one. The last five weekends have had us up north, out west, due east, and seemingly everywhere between. I'm looking forward to just chilling on Friday night, watching an old movie with Mrs. Chicken, having some cocktails and otherwise taking it easy. This weekend is Labor Day, so I am also looking forward to a little homework this week in anticipation of my fantasy football league's draft on Sunday. Watch me, as I create a roster of the most spectacularly marginal and moderately successful professional athletes this side of Rashan Salaam. Seriously though, my goal is to crush this league. I missed the playoffs last year. Thanks, Steve Smith! Thanks, Bobby Engram! Thanks, Deuce!

Really though, it was my own fault. I made the playoffs the year before, barely sniffing the championship game before being pummelled by the very worthy opponent ye Gods call J.B. This year, I expect an aberration to my sophomore slump. I have the No. 3 pick this year, but I've learned that does me no good. I had the fucking No. 1 pick last year and still couldn't make the playoffs, so that tells you everything you need to know about my fantasy skills.

 

 

 

 

 

What is something that can always make you feel better?
Submitted by meehshell

Yeah, it's silly. What the fuck's wrong with silly? What, you're too cool for silly?

 

Rarely, if ever, do I provide a warning to a post here at the Chicken. But, I am doing it now.

You are being warned that if you scroll down on this post you will see a very close-up picture of my bare ass. This is for a reason and you will see if you continue on this page. Again, this post contains a photo of ass up close, my bare ass, as in no pants, no underpants, nothing. You can see my ass crack. I didn't blur it out.

Again, just so everyone is absolutely fucking clear, this post has a photographic image in it, taken by Mrs. Chicken, of my bare ass at a very close range. I am a 225-pound man. If visions of ass flesh and crackery freak you out, move along. Go to zappos.com and buy some fucking Crocs or some shit, OK? But I don't want to hear one person bitching about "ewww" or "gross," as it relates to my bare ass, or its crack, which you will see on this post if you scroll down.

Ahem.

I fell on my rump so fucking hard last weekend, I felt it actually warrants a photo. Foremost, this was nobody's fault but mine. It was the Friday night of our weekend in Torch Lake. Yes, I had consumed alcohol, but I was hardly drunk. I was buzzed, but not even close to being shitfaced. It was about 11 at night and I failed to realize that dew had covered the property. Around the bonfire, my view of the bright, gorgeous moon in the sky was somewhat blocked by a tree line. So, I took my freshly made drink down to the dock for a better view. The steps leading to the dock are very secure and easy to negotiate. The final step is a few inches higher off the ground than normal steps would be, so a big flat-surfaced, probably six-inch thick rock is placed on the sandy beach as the last step. I've used this dozens of times without incident; others, hundreds of times.

So, here comes me, late at night, ambling down said steps, in a pair of flip-flops no less, my left foot on the last wooden step, my right foot about to come down upon the stone, with all of my weight. When I do that, my right foot slips on the moisture and both of my feet come out from beneath me. I come down, hard, right on my ass, on the surface of that stone, continue to bounce up in the air in the seated position and come to a rest, amid whisky and ice cubes, on the sandy beach. I am convinced I have crippled myself for a lifetime.

Needless to say the area has been tender and sore, but I don't believe there is significiant -- as in "you've broken something Mr. Chicken" -- damage. But man, it hurts like a motherfucker. I believe the imagery -- the one you've been warned about containing my naked ass and ass crack -- speaks volumes.

 

And yes, it was a little chilly in the house this morning.

 

 

But he likes to "help" with the laundry.

 

Torch Lake weekend, as usual, was quite the success. Kerry's aunt's family has side-by-side places on this enormous and pristine inland lake, one of Michigan's biggest. And every year, Matt clears it out for a long weekend of whatever the hell we want. Some of the more prominent names from years past were unable to attend, but it was still very much a solid three days (for us) of much-needed relaxation and imbibinous impulses.

The drive up Thursday was a nightmare. In one stretch, it took us 1 1/2 hours to move about 10 miles. It was a joke.Thankfully, Lamont was a good boy on the ride up.

 

We arrived late Thursday, hung with Aunt Liz, crashed, had breakfast the next day, took a walk with her, Kerry, and the dog, and then chilled while people started to arrive in the afternoon. Friday night was drinks and bonfires, while Saturday incorporated more of the same. One notable inclusion was Matt's signature rack of lamb, which we enjoyed in a near utopian state on Saturday. No photos of that, only a smile on my face as I recall it fondly.

There was a day of hanging out on the dock ...

 

 

... and much of the same on the patio ...

 

... Scout joined us for dinner Friday, hoping that something would fall to the floor.

 

I headed out Saturday morning to meet Tom in Leelanau for the annual fly-in/pancake breakfast/car show at Woosley Memorial Airport in Northport. There, single-engine planes fly in amid the breakfast backdrop. It may sound unconventional, but it's actually kind of cool, at least I think.

 

 

 

The food is choice ...

 

 

... and visitors can get up close and personal with the aircraft.

 

 

 

 

Naturally, we've been drawn to the cars in the past. This Jeep was a pretty sweet rig, complete with a mounted outboard motor ...

 

 

... as was this bomb Caddy.

 

 

 

Yet another delightful weekend in Michigan's north country, thanks to Matt's incomprable hospitality and some picture-perfect weather.

The Up North Tour continued the weekend before last, with our annual camping trip to the Leelanau Peninsula. As has been custom for the last six years, Tom and I meet up at the tip of the pinky for some rustic camping and a few days of decompressing in what has slowly become one of my favorite places to be.

Seemingly, every year, I come back with the same set of photos, so I've limited them this year. The highlight of the weekend? It certainly wasn't being jammed on one campsite with six other people, three of them children, I will tell you that. No, it was the annual dog parade in Northport, a city more than 100 years old and holding just under 700 people in this picture-perfect northern Michigan community. Every year, around mid-August, they host a themed dog parade that runs through downtown. The theme for 2008 was an Indiana Jones takeoff, something about "Indiana Bones and the Raiders of the Lost Bark." It was cute and whimsical, and a nice distraction for the afternoon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And while years past have yielded some consistent imagery of wineries, wooded views and assorted shots of peninsula life, the sky above Lake Michigan, to me, never gets old.